


Lee Minho Doesn't Cry

by smuttytaelien



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dancer Lee Minho | Lee Know, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Han Jisung | Han is Whipped, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lee Minho | Lee Know-centric, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttytaelien/pseuds/smuttytaelien
Summary: Minho didn't cry, and maybe that was his problem all along.Jisung just wants to be a supportive boyfriend ♡
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 4
Kudos: 229





	Lee Minho Doesn't Cry

Minho considered himself relatively stable in most aspects. He had a stable income from his dancing job, which paid for the cheap apartment he rented and his car insurance. He loved his boyfriend, Jisung, with his entire being, and wasn't one to overreact and compromise an otherwise calm situation. And he was mentally healthy. He was three years clean from self-harm, starting from the day he stumbled into Jisung at the cat cafe and counting. His deteriorating self-confidence rebuilt itself the further he aged into his twenties, and he grew to find optimism in the most negative things. 

He was stable.

But that was three months ago. 

Three months ago he would invite Jisung over to his apartment every Friday for their traditional movie night, fall asleep in his arms and force him to stay for the following week. He had contemplated asking Jisung to move in with him more times than he could count on two hands, but nerves always paralyzed his tongue. His usual weekly meetings with his boyfriend were halted by the virus that rapidly spread throughout the country, leaving thousands dead in its wake. Quarantine was amazing the first month, getting money every week from unemployment without having to leave the sanctuary of his home or the cuddly embrace of his three lovely kittens. The second month it became monotonous, any sense of time or purpose fading from his numbing brain. 

Usually, June first started a long month of celebration for him and Jisung. They would kiss in public just to piss off the homophobes, paint their faces with the colors of the rainbow and march in the very few parades conservative South Korea had. But instead, June first found Minho a gloomy mess of too many thoughts and not enough space to think about them. 

His dreams usually consisted of Jisung, Jisung, Jisung. Chubby cheeks and gummy smiles, lips on his and his boyfriend's hands around his waist. That night, for the first time since the two met, Minho hadn't dreamed of him, and it was worrying him more than he originally thought. Minho was mentally stable, right? This quarantine, he assured himself, hadn't messed with him in the slightest (it had). 

Minho didn't consider himself an overthinker, that job was reserved for Jisung's jumbled head. In fact, he considered himself quite lazy. He never allowed his thoughts to affect his daily life, never let himself lash out irrationally because of a few straying ideas. He believed strongly in suppressing his emotions for the sake of others, and he did so easily. Jisung, as far as he knew, had never seen him cry. So when the first tear brushed against his upper lip, tanging the skin with its saltiness, he was shocked. Lee Minho did not cry. He danced, and he sang, and he screamed, but he did not cry. 

Maybe he was a bit less stable than he claimed. 

"Fucking dream," he cursed, wiping his tears in a pitiful attempt to plug a cork in the flooding dam. Every night he fell asleep with Jisung's smile already tainting the edges of his mind, every night he met his boyfriend in their own sleepy world filled with nothing but overflowing love. But last night, he couldn't see Jisung in the fading blackness of his subconscious. No fluffy blonde hair broke through the darkness to greet him. Minho could hardly close his eyes, and it was evident in the sluggish drag of his feet and the three empty coffee cups in his sink. He needed answers, even if there weren't any. Dreams, he knew, held messages, and he desperately tried to understand what his subconscious was telling him. 

He loved Jisung, didn't he? He loved his laugh and his voice. He loved the way he cared for Minho despite his rugged exterior. He loved Han Jisung, right? Had the three months of no physical affection hindered his adoration? God, he hoped not. If Minho didn't love Jisung, then he couldn't be sure of anything. 

The tears flowed steady, now paired with an uncontrollable quiver of his lips. His eyes frantically shot around the cluttered kitchen, nails digging into his palms as if the pain could ever measure up to the satisfaction of crimson blood and sharpened edges. 

No. 

Lee Minho did not self-harm. He was three years clean. He is mentally stable. 

But, fuck, if the pencil sharpener laying on his kitchen table didn't look so very tempting. He knew just how to unscrew the loose little screw, just how to destroy the plastic. One deep flick across the skin of his wrist and he'd be done. 

He is mentally stable.

His wrists tingled in anticipation for the familiar feeling of metal on skin, the familiar iron smell of blood that would appear. He was never satisfied until blood bubbled to the surface and made a crimson river down the expanse of his forearm. 

He reached out and clutched the small sharpener, one dollar of plastic ready to destroy three years of progress. He tossed it to the ground and lifted his leg. 

It shattered.

He is mentally stable. 

"Hey, babe? You weren't answering your phone and I-" Jisung stopped. Minho's fiery eyes were dulled by a hazy sea of uncertainty, tears pooling on the tips of his eyelashes. His hair was ruffled and tangled, so unlike the meticulously planned hairstyles he was accustomed too. Blood stained the floor by his feet, red against the polished white. Jisung knew of Minho's past, and panic instantly flooded his senses. He grabbed Minho's hand on instinct, pulling him to the living room and forcing him to sit. He inspected the kitchen for the weapon and cringed when a piece of neon green plastic crunched under his Converse. He picked up the shards and nearly sobbed in relief when he found the blade far from Minho. After disposing of the danger, he approached his dazed boyfriend, who was still silently crying. 

"Do I love you?" Minho mumbled, staring into Jisung's concerned eyes. Jisung's stomach tightened uncomfortably at the question, but he answered regardless.

"You do, and I love you too." Jisung drew him close and Minho melted into his embrace, hands gripping onto his arms to anchor himself amid the swirling sea.

He was mentally stable.

"Jisung, I don't think I'm okay." He admitted shakily. Jisung nodded, kissing his temple and pulling him closer. Jisung held him like he almost lost his entire universe, and it made Minho cry harder, sobbing into Jisung's hoodie. 

"That's alright, baby. No one wants you to be okay all the time." Jisung placed his palms onto Minho's cheeks, rubbed his thumbs over his damp cheekbones, and kissed him with a sort of terrified desperation. "Let me help you." 

Minho definitely loved Han Jisung.


End file.
